Gabriel Allon: Prince of Fire, the Messenger, the Secret Servant

by Daniel Silva

  Gabriel winced.

  “Fortunately we didn’t come away completely empty-handed,” Shamron said. “The watcher made off with Massoudi’s briefcase. Among other things it contained a laptop computer. It seems Professor Ali Massoudi was more than just a talent spotter.”

  Shamron placed the file folder in front of Gabriel and, with a terse nod of his head, instructed Gabriel to open the cover. Inside he found a stack of surveillance photographs: St. Peter’s Square from a dozen different angles; the façade and interior of the Basilica; Swiss Guards standing watch at the Arch of Bells. It was clear the photos had not been taken by an ordinary tourist, because the cameraman had been far less interested in the visual aesthetics of the Vatican than the security measures surrounding it. There were several snapshots of the barricades along the western edge of the square and the metal detectors along Bernini’s Colonnade—and several more of the Vigilanza and Carabinieri who patrolled the square during large gatherings, including close-ups of their side arms. The final three photographs showed Pope Paul VII greeting a crowd in St. Peter’s Square in his glass-enclosed popemobile. The camera lens had been focused not on the Holy Father but on the plainclothes Swiss Guards walking at his side.

  Gabriel viewed the photos a second time. Based on the quality of the light and the clothing worn by the crowds of pilgrims, it appeared that they had been taken on at least three separate occasions. Repeated photographic surveillance of the same target, he knew, was a hallmark of a serious al-Qaeda operation. He closed the file and held it out to Shamron, but Shamron wouldn’t accept it. Gabriel regarded the old man’s face with the same intensity he’d studied the photographs. He could tell there was more bad news to come.

  “Technical found something else on Massoudi’s computer,” Shamron said. “Instructions for accessing a numbered bank account in Zurich—an account we’ve known about for some time, because it’s received regular infusions of money from something called the Committee to Liberate al-Quds.”

  Al-Quds was the Arabic name for Jerusalem.

  “Who’s behind it?” Gabriel asked.

  “Saudi Arabia,” said Shamron. “To be more specific, the interior minister of Saudi Arabia, Prince Nabil.”

  Inside the Office, Nabil was routinely referred to as the Prince of Darkness for his hatred of Israel and the United States and his support of Islamic militancy around the globe.

  “Nabil created the committee at the height of the second intifada,” Shamron continued. “He raises the money himself and personally oversees the distribution. We believe he has a hundred million dollars at his disposal, and he’s funneling it to some of the most violent terror groups in the world, including elements of al-Qaeda.”

  “Who’s giving Nabil the money?”

  “Unlike the other Saudi charities, the Committee for the Liberation of al-Quds has a very small donor base. We think Nabil raises the money from a handful of Saudi multimillionaires.”

  Shamron peered into his coffee for a moment. “Charity,” he said, his tone disdainful. “A lovely word, isn’t it? But Saudi charity has always been a two-edged sword. The Muslim World League, the International Islamic Relief Organization, the al-Haramayn Islamic Foundation, the Benevolence International Foundation—they are to Saudi Arabia what the Comintern was to the old Soviet Union. A means of propagating the faith. Islam. And not just any form of Islam. Saudi Arabia’s puritanical brand of Islam. Wahhabism. The charities build mosques and Islamic centers around the world and madrassas that churn out the Wahhabi militants of tomorrow. And they also give money directly to the terrorists, including our friends in Hamas. The engines of America run on Saudi oil, but the networks of global Islamic terrorism run largely on Saudi money.”

  “Charity is the third pillar of Islam,” Gabriel said. “Zakat.”

  “And a noble quality,” Shamron said, “except when the zakat ends up in the hands of murderers.”

  “Do you think Ali Massoudi was connected to the Saudis by more than money?”

  “We may never know because the great professor is no longer with us. But whomever he was working for clearly has his sights set on the Vatican—and someone needs to tell them.”

  “I suspect you have someone in mind for the job.”

  “Consider it your first assignment as chief of Special Ops,” Shamron said. “The prime minister wants you to step into the breach. Immediately.”

  “And Amos?”

  “Amos has another name in mind, but the prime minister and I have made it clear to him who we want in the job.”

  “My own record is hardly free of scandal, and unfortunately the world now knows about it.”

  “The Gare de Lyon affair?” Shamron shrugged. “You were lured into it by a clever opponent. Besides, I’ve always believed that a career free of controversy is not a proper career at all. The prime minister shares that view.”

  “Maybe that’s because he’s been involved in a few scandals of his own.” Gabriel exhaled heavily and looked down at the photographs once more. “There are risks to sending me to Rome. If the French find out I’m on Italian soil—”

  “There’s no need for you to go to Rome,” Shamron said, cutting him off. “Rome is coming to you.”

  “Donati?”

  Shamron nodded.

  “How much did you tell him?”

  “Enough for him to ask Alitalia if he could borrow a plane for a few hours,” Shamron said. “He’ll be here first thing in the morning. Show him the photographs. Tell him as much as you need to in order to impress upon him that we think the threat is credible.”

  “And if he asks for help?”

  Shamron shrugged. “Give him whatever he needs.”

  3.

  Jerusalem

  MONSIGNOR LUIGI DONATI, private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII, was waiting for Gabriel in the lobby of the King David Hotel at eleven the following morning. He was tall and lean and handsome as an Italian movie idol. The cut of his black clerical suit and Roman collar suggested that the monsignor, while chaste, was not without personal vanity—as did the expensive Swiss watch on his wrist and the gold fountain pen lodged in his breast pocket. His dark eyes radiated a fierce and uncompromising intelligence, while the stubborn set of his jaw revealed that he was a dangerous man to cross. The Vatican press corps had described him as a clerical Rasputin, the power behind the papal throne. His enemies within the Roman Curia often referred to Donati as “the Black Pope,” an unflattering reference to his Jesuit past.

  It had been three years since their first meeting. Gabriel had been investigating the murder of an Israeli scholar living in Munich, a former Office agent named Benjamin Stern. The trail of clues had led Gabriel to the Vatican and into Donati’s capable hands, and together they had destroyed a grave threat to the papacy. A year later Donati had helped Gabriel find evidence in a Church archive that allowed him to identify and capture Erich Radek, a Nazi war criminal living in Vienna. But the bond between Gabriel and Donati extended far beyond two men. Donati’s master, Pope Paul VII, was closer to Israel than any of his predecessors and had taken monumental steps to improve relations between Catholics and Jews. Keeping him alive was one of Shamron’s highest priorities.

  When Donati spotted Gabriel coming across the lobby, he smiled warmly and extended a long, dark hand. “It’s good to see you, my friend. I only wish the circumstances were different.”

  “Have you checked into your room?”

  Donati held up the key.

  “Let’s go upstairs. There’s something you need to see.”

  They walked to the elevators and entered a waiting carriage. Gabriel knew, even before Donati reached out for the panel of call buttons, that he would press the one for the sixth floor—just as he knew that the key in Donati’s hand opened the door to Room 616. The spacious suite overlooking the Old City walls was permanently reserved for Office use. Along with the usual luxury amenities, it contained a built-in audio recording system, which could be engaged by a tiny switc
h concealed beneath the bathroom sink. Gabriel made certain the system was turned off before showing the photographs to Donati. The priest’s face showed no emotion as he regarded each image carefully, but a moment later, as he stood at the window gazing out toward the Dome of the Rock sparkling in the distance, Gabriel noticed the muscles of his jaw alternatively clenching and unclenching with stress.

  “We’ve been through this many times before, Gabriel—the Millennium, the Jubilee, nearly every Christmas and Easter. Sometimes the warnings are delivered to us by the Italian security services, and sometimes they come from our friends in the Central Intelligence Agency. Each time, we respond by clamping down on security, until the threat is deemed to have subsided. Thus far, nothing has materialized. The Basilica is still standing. And so, too, I’m pleased to say, is the Holy Father.”

  “Just because they haven’t succeeded doesn’t mean they aren’t trying, Luigi. The Wahhabi-inspired terrorists of al-Qaeda and its affiliates regard everyone who doesn’t adhere to its brand of Islam as kafur and mushrikun, worthy only of death. Kafur are infidels, and mushrikun are polytheists. They regard even Sunni and Shiite Muslims as mushrikun, but to their way of thinking, there’s no bigger symbol of polytheism than the Vatican and the Holy Father.”

  “I understand all that, but as you say at your Passover seder, why is this night different from all other nights?”

  “You’re asking me why you should take this threat seriously?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Because of the messenger,” Gabriel said. “The man on whose computer we found these photographs.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

  Donati turned slowly away from the window and regarded Gabriel imperiously. “I’ve laid bare some of the darkest secrets of the Roman Catholic Church to you. The least you can do in return is tell me where you got the photographs.”

  Gabriel hesitated. “Are you familiar with the name Ali Massoudi?’

  “Professor Ali Massoudi?” Donati’s expression darkened. “Wasn’t he killed in London a couple of nights ago?”

  “He wasn’t killed,” Gabriel said. “He died in an accident.”

  “Dear God, please tell me you didn’t push him in front of that truck, Gabriel.”

  “Save your sorrow for someone worthy of it. We know Massoudi was a terrorist recruiter. And based on what we found on his laptop, he might have been a planner as well.”

  “Too bad he’s dead. We could have put him on the rack and tortured him until he told us what we wanted to hear.” Donati looked down at his hands. “Forgive my sarcastic tone, Gabriel, but I’m not a great supporter of this war on terror we’re engaged in. Nor for that matter is the Holy Father.”

  Donati looked out the window once again, at the walls of the Old City. “Ironic, isn’t it? My first visit to this holy city of yours, and this is the reason for it.”

  “You’ve really never been?”

  Donati slowly shook his head.

  “Care to have a look at where it all started?”

  Donati smiled. “Actually, I’d like nothing better.”

  THEY CROSSED the Valley of Hinnom and labored up the slope of the hill to the eastern wall of the Old City. The footpath at the base of the wall was in shadow. They followed it southward, toward the Church of the Dormition, then rounded the corner and slipped through the Zion Gate. On the Jewish Quarter Road, Donati produced a slip of paper from the pocket of his clerical suit. “The Holy Father would like me to leave this in the Western Wall.”

  They followed a cluster of haredim down Tif’eret Yisra’el. Donati, in his black clothing, looked as though he might be part of the group. At the end of the street they descended the wide stone steps that led to the plaza in front of the wall. A long line stretched from the security kiosk. Gabriel, after murmuring something to a female border police officer, led Donati around the metal detectors and into the square.

  “Don’t you do anything like a normal person?”

  “You go ahead,” Gabriel said. “I’ll wait here.”

  Donati turned and inadvertently headed toward the women’s side of the wall. Gabriel, with a discreet cluck of his tongue, guided him to the portion reserved for men. Donati selected a kippah from the public basket and placed it precariously atop his head. He stood before the wall a moment in silent prayer, then slipped the small scroll of paper into a crevice in the tan Herodian stone.

  “What did it say?” Gabriel asked, when Donati returned.

  “It was a plea for peace.”

  “You should have left it up there,” Gabriel said, pointing in the direction of the Al-Aqsa mosque.

  “You’ve changed,” Donati said. “The man I met three years ago would never have said that.”

  “We’ve all changed, Luigi. There’s not much of a peace camp in this country anymore, only a security camp. Arafat didn’t count on that when he unleashed the suicide bombers.”

  “Arafat is gone now.”

  “Yes, but the damage he left behind will take at least a generation to repair.” He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the wounds of the second intifada will never heal.”

  “And so the killing will go on? Surely you can’t contemplate a future like that.”

  “Of course we can, Luigi. That’s the way it’s always been in this place.”

  They left the Jewish Quarter and walked to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Gabriel waited in the courtyard while Donati, after fending off a freelance Palestinian tour guide, went inside. He returned ten minutes later. “It’s dark,” he said. “And a little disappointing, to be honest with you.”

  “I’m afraid that’s what everyone says.”

  They left the courtyard and walked in the Via Dolorosa. A group of American pilgrims, led by a brown-cassocked monk clutching a red helium balloon, hustled toward them from the opposite direction. Donati watched the spectacle with a bemused expression on his face.

  “Do you still believe?” Gabriel asked suddenly.

  Donati took a moment before answering. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, my personal faith is something of a complex matter. But I do believe in the power of the Roman Catholic Church to be a force for good in a world filled with evil. And I believe in this Pope.”

  “So you’re a faithless man at the side of a man of great faith.”

  “Well put,” Donati said. “And what about you? Do you still believe? Did you ever?”

  Gabriel stopped walking. “The Canaanites, the Hittites, the Amalekites, the Moabites—they’re all gone. But for some reason we’re still here. Was it because God made a covenant with Abraham four thousand years ago? Who’s to say?”

  “‘I will bless you greatly and make your descendants as numerous as the stars of heaven and the sands of the seashore,’” Donati said, quoting the twenty-second chapter of Genesis.

  “‘And your descendants shall come to possess the gates of your enemies,’” Gabriel said, finishing the passage for him. “And now my enemy wants those gates back, and he’s willing to do anything, including sacrifice his own son, to get them back.”

  Donati smiled at Gabriel’s clever interpretation of Scripture. “We’re not so different, you and I. We’ve both given our lives over to higher powers. For me, it’s the Church. For you, it’s your people.” He paused. “And the land.”

  They walked farther along the Via Dolorosa, into the Muslim Quarter. When the street was enveloped in shadow, Gabriel pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead. Palestinian shopkeepers eyed him curiously from their crowded stalls.

  “Is it all right for you to be here?”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “I take it you’re armed.”

  Gabriel allowed his silence to serve as an answer. As they walked on Donati’s gaze was on the cobblestones, and his dark brow was furrowed in concentration.

  “If I know Ali Massoudi is dead, is it safe to assume his comrades know he’s dead, too?”

  “Of c
ourse.”

  “Do they also know his computer contained those photographs? And that it fell into your hands?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Might that encourage them to accelerate their plans?”

  “Or it might cause them to postpone the operation until you and the Italians let your guard down again.”

  They passed through Damascus Gate. Gabriel lowered his sunglasses as they entered the crowded, cacophonous market square beyond the walls.

  “There’s something you should know about those photos,” Donati said. “They were all taken during the Holy Father’s general audience, when he greets pilgrims from around the world in St. Peter’s Square.”

  Gabriel stopped walking and gazed at the golden Dome of the Rock, floating above the stone walls. “The general audience takes place on Wednesdays, does it not?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Gabriel looked at Donati and said, “Today is Tuesday.”

  Donati looked at his wristwatch. “Will you give me a ride back to the airport? If we hurry, we can be in Rome in time for supper.”

  “We?”

  “We’ll stop at your apartment on the way out of town so you can pack a bag,” Donati said. “It’s been stormy in Rome. Make sure you pack a raincoat.”

  He would have to bring more than a raincoat, Gabriel thought as he led Donati through the crowded market. He was going to need a false passport, too.

  4.

  Vatican City

  IT WAS A RATHER ordinary office for so powerful a man. The Oriental carpet was faded and timeworn, and the curtains were heavy and drab. As Gabriel and Donati entered the room, the small figure in white seated behind the large austere desk was gazing intently at the screen of a television. A scene of violence played there: fire and smoke, bloodstained survivors pulling at their hair and weeping over the tattered bodies of the dead. Pope Paul VII, Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus, successor to St. Peter, pressed the Power button on his remote control, and the image turned to black. “Gabriel,” he said. “It’s so good to see you again.”